


Mirror

by Tatile



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Original Character(s), Pre-game timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28077147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tatile/pseuds/Tatile
Summary: Special thanks to Jammerific for helping me with this :)Warning: graphic blood and description of injury, sibling rivalry, freeze not flight.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Benedicta and Rochester are identical twins. They are not nice to each other for various reasons. Benedicta is a Sith, Rochester is not.

The argument didn’t matter, just that it happened. He’d said something, done something. She’d done something, said something. Now here they were, sniping at each other in the parlour.

“He really isn’t all that,” said Rochester. Newly fifteen - their shared birthday had been two weeks ago, but school had been in session then - and all the more arrogant for it. It was because of some boy. Just some guy. Who it really was didn’t matter. All that mattered was Rochester had gotten there first.

“How the fuck am I going to know now?” Benedicta said, her hands balling into fists.

“I’m telling you now,” He shrugged. “He’s cute but not that interesting. Wants to be in Spec Ops.” He pouted mockingly before tutting and rolling his eyes. “Doesn’t have the brains for it.”

“Shut up.”

“He might _settle_ for you.” He was needling her deliberately. He’d been rejected. It had been obvious from the start, really, that the crush was unobtainable. The guy just wasn’t interested in him. But that was beside the point. Benedicta had been home before him. She’d had more time and more chances. Like all her gifts, she’d squandered the opportunity. Rochester didn’t just get there first. He’d snatched the moment out from under her. “He already got rejected by the good twin, so why not?”

“Fuck you.”

“Uh, ew.”

“I hate you!” She spat. Stamping on the floor hard enough to make the wood creak, her nails bit into her palms. She wanted to kill him.

“Temper temper.” Rochester put his finger to his lips, pantomiming a thought. Those lips, that face, just like hers. Awfully like hers. _Exactly_ like hers. “What is it gran-gran keeps saying?” Gran-gran. She froze, watching him in mounting horror. Surely he wasn’t that stupid. “A good Sith controls their emotions, not the other way around.”

He was so fucking smug.

“Are you a good Sith, Beni?”

She hated it. Hated him. She ripped into the Force and shoved him. Freezing poison rushed against her mind. It _hurt_. She pushed him down, laying wave after wave on top, pinning him in place. And then her hand closed about something. Ah, the fruit knife. Carelessly left on the sideboard. Someone was going to lose their job. She could feel him struggling. How did it feel? To have something you couldn’t grasp, couldn’t see, pressing down on you? Crushing you? Suffocating you?

“Beni,” He gasped and every little breath was a battle. “Stop.” Each fall of his chest brought the weight down. She’d seen this before. One of the lower class upstarts had overstepped the mark and their instructor had squeezed the life out of them. Watching that had been quite the lesson. “Please.” His voice was faint and he was turning red. Redder. She could feel him slowing, giving in. Feel the-

_roar  
tearing  
wind  
nothing stretching consuming  
welling  
reaching  
hungry_

\- she stopped. Pulled it all back. Lifted the great weight from her brother so it dissipated as if it never were. Anger still raged within her.

Fine. She couldn’t kill him. But she would punish him. He opened his eyes as she leant over him. They widened as she grabbed his face. He kicked, pushed against her. He was weak. She was strong.

“Real Sith don’t beg.”

It was hard. He wiggled and screamed at first, but when the knife bit through his flesh and scraped his teeth, Rochester froze. Blood flowed over her fingers. She almost lost her grip going through the top lip and into the bottom. He wasn’t crying, which was odd. He was always such a cry baby. Left hand, right side. He just stared at her and let it happen. Left side now, up from the bottom. Frame the face.

Make them different.

And then it was done. Shaking, she wiped her hands on her clothes. The knife lay on the floor, next to her coughing, spluttering, twin-no-longer.


End file.
